


Suptober Day 8: Heartless

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: “So you’re like, the Tin Man or something?” Dean’s expression is lighter than the darkness of their existence, the knife-edge of the Apocalypse overhead. “’If you only had a heart?’”“No part of me is metal; I am much more resilient than tin. And my vessel has a heart,” Castiel answers, seriously. “You stabbed it.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 16
Kudos: 122





	Suptober Day 8: Heartless

**Author's Note:**

> Set (obviously) after Swan Song--a bit of achiness, my lovelies, this one's bittersweet.

Angels, Castiel knows, are not made for emotion.

It doesn’t mean that they don’t feel. It doesn’t mean that they don’t have opinions.

(Oh, they have _so many_ opinions.)

But they weren’t created for free will the way that humans were, Castiel doesn’t think. That was probably an intentional omission. They were tools, and tools are made with centers and cores and _purpose_. Emotion distracts from purpose, and they’re creatures of purpose before anything.

His love for his Father is an absolute, and an intent, and Castiel cannot remember a time when his being didn’t trill little harmonies of praise to God. None of that requires emotion, though. Only obedience, and the showing of one’s love thereby.

It wasn’t until he met the Winchesters that Castiel realized that might not be a good thing, and that obeisance was even blinder than obedience.

“So you’re like, the Tin Man or something?” Dean’s expression is lighter than the darkness of their existence, the knife-edge of the Apocalypse overhead. The wafting, struggling air conditioning of the motel smells of dust mites, and the old blood drip of bedbugs. No active ones, but they were here recently. Castiel wonders if he should tell the Winchesters about them. “’If you only had a heart?’”

“No part of me is metal; I am _much_ more resilient than tin. And my vessel has a heart,” Castiel answers, seriously. “You stabbed it.”

It makes Dean laugh. When he tosses his head, amusement trills at the base of his throat, and it’s… fun. That’s what it is. It’s fun. “What can I say, I got good aim.”

“Dean, what the heck, that’s really rude. _Plus_ I think you might’ve missed the entire point of the Tin Man’s existence,” Sam sighs. But amusement is pooling in his collarbone, too.

Dean’s smiling at Castiel, though, in a way that Castiel doesn’t quite understand: Dean is so rarely so gentle with anyone. “Nah,” he answers. Castiel thinks he’s trying for mischief, but his smile is genuine. The fondness in it is like watching clouds dance. “Pretty sure I’ve got it right.”

When Sam dies—worse than dies, Castiel knows, and better, because to swallow Lucifer the way Sam did was a choice, and the entrance into Heaven or Hell is really almost never one or the other. Sam wanted that choice, and he got it, but Dean’s gentleness burns away. He is the bones of emotion, stark and serious in a way that Castiel’s never seen him, and not even God’s renewed grace running through Castiel’s veins can make him understand why Dean is gripping at the collar of Castiel’s coat with both hands.

“Cas,” he says, low and aching. “Cas, I need to forget. Can you do that?”

Yes, Castiel can make him—with his grace singing hallelujahs through his being once again, he thinks he can do almost anything. He can, but still. Castiel hesitates, his fingers hovering just over Dean’s face, the eyes Dean has half-closed. Bruises are living over his cheekbones.

Emotion distracts from purpose, but even though Castiel is a tool—Dean is not. Dean averted the apocalypse by refusing to play the roles, by refusing to be the sword. Castiel has fallen, but he has only moved in one direction: Dean has never stopped being in motion.

Dean refuses to be static. He was weak, and then he was stronger again for having been weak, and he refused to be _used_.

To make Dean forget that, to tear it from his mind, would not be a gift.

Carefully, Castiel’s hand settles on the side of Dean’s face. “Not like that,” he answers. Humans touch, even if angels don’t. Dean’s stubble prickles Castiel’s palms. “You don’t want to forget Sam.” _You don’t want to forget yourself._

Castiel understands little of humanity, even now. But in his core filled of solar flares and nebulas, he knows this.

Dean’s face twists in something like triumph, and something like tenderness, or perhaps discomfort. He closes the distance between them, bewilderingly quickly. Castiel’s wings twitch with startlement, but he doesn’t fly.

Then Dean kisses him, and Castiel has never known such agony.

Castiel has been shattered, he has been _unmade_ , and no-one thought to be kind about putting him back together. But Dean tastes of whiskey and wanting, desire and despair, and the mix of beauty and pain makes Castiel want to fly apart. The bittersweet of Dean’s tongue is overwhelming. Dean’s soul twists, and his hands reach out for Castiel.

Castiel wants to swallow Dean, envelop him in his light and his wings until he has driven the shadows of loss out. He wants to taste his human heartbeat and lick at the dark, fresh-split cracks in Dean’s soul until they are as glowing and golden as the rest of it.

Dean’s tongue prods roughly at the seam of his lips, and Castiel knows that if he lets him in, he will not be able to let him out.

“No, I…” Castiel pulls back, and the scrape of Dean’s teeth against his lower lip almost pulls his self from his vessel for wanting to climb into Dean, feel him wrapped around Castiel’s inner self; for the first time in his existence, he understands temptation. “No,” he says, because he wants it so badly.

Dean stares at him, his lips wet, and eyes spangled with all the colors of spring verdancy are already starting to blur with understanding.

“I can’t,” Castiel says, because to say _‘I mustn’t’_ sounds too much like Castiel thinks there is a choice. There isn’t, not really. He has already been too close to the Winchesters, once, too close to _Dean,_ once, and what little will he had was almost stripped from him. This is different: if he relinquishes himself now, Castiel knows he will be lost. He has a duty, and he is not his own to lose. “I can’t, Dean.”

But temptation still wracks him. Castiel’s voice stumbles on the words, on Dean’s name, like his wings are out of alignment, like the rotation of the stars has tilted sideways.

Perhaps it has. Dean _kissed_ him.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and he turns away.

Castiel regrets it the moment the contact of Dean’s eyes leaves his. He should leave, he knows—Heaven awaits, and he is nothing if he is not his duty. God brought him back for a purpose, and Castiel does not think the purpose is the man in front of him.

Dean isn’t for him. _Desire_ isn’t for him.

“Go on, Tin Man,” Dean says, and the cynicism in it is an intentional slap.

It’s meant to be an insult, but it’s only the truth. Castiel takes that with him as he takes one step back, then another. His wings wrap him in darkness and the firmament, but for once, the cool of the space between the stars is empty, not just calm.

There wasn’t even any surprise in it, when Dean said it.

Castiel is a soldier. He was a tool, and a tool had a core, and a purpose. It does not need a heart. He has none of that, now, unmoored and twisting in solar winds, but he has a Heaven to save. It will have to be enough.

But maybe, just maybe, he has a heart, as well.

Castiel, invisible, watches Dean’s thumb stray, absently, across the back of Lisa Braeden’s’s hand, worn calluses dipping between her knuckles—the small smile he wears as he rakes leaves—the peace that Castiel’s never seen when Dean’s looked at him, quiet and still down the broad lines of Dean’s back. He looks at the glow of Dean’s soul—the cracks still present in it, but gentled, filled with a young boy’s admiration and a woman’s patience.

Castiel would have been able to give him none of them. He would not have brought Dean peace.

He turns away.

And yet.

Yes. Yes, Castiel was wrong. He does have a heart.

He just sometimes wishes he didn’t.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Mmph--it's been awhile since I did some angst. I'm really enjoying how these Suptober/Kinktober prompts are making me do things I wouldn't otherwise!
> 
> If you're so inclined to share in the madness, come join us in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond).


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